Wednesday, 21 June 2017

Memories of the Royal Meeting: Riposte, Estimate, Lady Cecil and The Queen.

On this day, four years ago, there were two
fairy tales at the Royal Meeting. There were two stories of such high emotion,
such blazing glory, such impossible odds that I hardly have words to describe
them. I am, however, all about words, so in my instinctive way, I wrote them
down. I’m so glad I did. They are stories I never want to forget. Best of all,
in a lovely act of synchronicity, they are stories of two great fillies and two
great women.

(For my non-racing readers, Sir Henry Cecil,
one of the greatest and most beloved of all trainers, had died not long before
the meeting. His widow had taken over his licence and she and the team at
Warren Place were keeping the string going even as they dealt with their grief.
It was a time of keen loss for the whole racing world.)

On the 21st of June 2013, this is
what I wrote:

All meeting, there were two things I quietly,
almost secretly, dreamed might happen. They were in the hardly-dare-hope
category. Then, after all the drama of the week so far, they suddenly both
happened, as if they had been inevitable all along.

Yesterday morning, with my forensic betting
hat on, I had picked Lady Cecil’s nice filly Riposte for the Ribblesdale,
because she was the only one of the principles who had winning form over the
distance. Ascot is a deceptively testing course. From a distance, on the
television cameras, it looks gorgeously smooth and flat, but in fact it has
nuanced undulations and a stiff uphill climb.

Trainers are not idiots. They do not want to
be disgraced on this biggest of stages. They will not send horses here if they
think they will not stay. But still, that little D by the side of Riposte
flashed at me like a beacon.

I took eights first thing, for a paltry
amount. I was still flinty and scientific, admitting doubts; the filly was
stepping up in class, she had something to prove. I was damn well not going to
let my heart rule everything.

I’ve been watching the Cecil horses all week,
hoping and hoping, longing for the memory of Sir Henry to set the crowd alight.
There was a close call with Tiger Cliff, but, as the days went on, I started to
resist the siren song. Dick Francis once wrote that there are no fairy tales in
racing. I sternly bashed down the fired expectations.

But as the off grew closer, even as Winsili
wavered and then hardened as the favourite, I decided that my lovely Riposte
would give the best riposte of all. I threw last-minute cash at her, in the way
I often do, as if the horse herself would detect my lack of loyalty if I
ratted.

I did not say any of this out loud. I was
watching with my mother and I did not want to raise the old lady’s hopes. I
said, diffidently: ‘I quite like the look of this Riposte.’ And that was all.

As the stalls smacked open and Simon Holt
began his call, Riposte imitated her close relation Frankel in his last start
on this very course.

She fell out of the stalls, completely
missing the break. Oh, well, I thought, privately, that’s that. It’s very
difficult to remedy that lost start. Tom Queally had to roust her along without
setting her alight. For a moment, as he pushed her into the race, it looked as
if she might boil over. But then the good girl came back to herself and settled
into her running. She wasl on the outside, towards the back, but she had found
her rhythm.

At half way, she had settled and was running
well within herself. But there were still only two horses behind her. Then
Queally, cleverly, patiently, started to creep into the race, his sympathetic
hands nursing his girl along.

And then, at about two out, he did something
radical, even rash. He gave Riposte a great push, asking for a huge burst of
speed. She put on her sprinting shoes, passed five horses in a matter of
seconds, and hit the front. In a flash, she was out on her own; nothing in
front of her but a wide, searching sward of green.

Would she last up that testing incline? Would
that intense effort have taken too much out of her? Would she get lonely out in
front, all on her own?

All these questions muddled through my mind.
But the lovely filly had every answer. She never deviated, running straight and
true to the line under only hands and heels, spread-eagling her field.

Without at all meaning to, I burst into
tears. I do this in big races in which I am absurdly emotionally invested. I
did it for Desert Orchid, all those years ago, when he defied a mud-splattered
afternoon and fought his way up the murderous Cheltenham hill, running on fumes
and guts and glory. I did it for Kauto Star’s great comeback at Haydock on that
dour autumn day, when everyone said he was finished. I did it for Frankel at
York, when people were not quite sure if the wonder colt would see out the mile
and two.

It is what my old Irish godmother describes,
vividly, as ‘tears coming out at right angles’. I don’t think I’d realised
until that moment how much emotion I had invested in that good filly, how the
memories of Sir Henry rode on her honest back, how the thought of that grieving
team at Warren Place had infected my racing spirit.

Normally, when a jockey passes the post in
front at the Royal Meeting, there is the instant flashing smile of victory. It
is the dream of every rider on the flat to win here. But Tom Queally did not
smile.

He did that thing with his mouth that you do
when you are fighting tears. The muscles tightened and the corners turned down
and the face set. He is not a man of public emotion. One sensed that if he had
been alone he would have cried like a baby. As it was, he was fighting to hold
it together on this most public of stages.

He put his hand out and ran it over Riposte’s
ear, with the exact gentle touch that Sir Henry had for his fillies. As the
camera angle shifted, the jockey’s back was slumped and head bowed, as if in
defeat.

The microphone was stuck in his face, and he
said, on a long breath: ‘It’s been a tough, tough week, and I know a lot of people
are struggling. But it’s great she did as well as she did and I’m sure Henry’s
looking down and helping us.’

Queally had that raw, disbelieving look on
his face that I remember so well from when my father died. The lovely victory
must have brought it all back for him. Sir Henry’s death was not a surprise; he
had been ill for years. But with men like that, impossible thinking sets in.
You believe they will defy the docs and live forever. I had a message from
someone who lives in Newmarket only today, saying she still could not believe
that she would walk down the street and not see him. Men like that are
institutions, stitched into the life of the place they embody. Death seems
stupid and impossible.

The camera pulled back to show the stalwart
travelling head lad, his face bleak as granite. The young lass, leading in her
conquering heroine, dissolved into streaming tears.

Then came the most poignant moment of all.
Lady Cecil, who has taken over the licence from her late husband, rushed
forward in the winner’s enclosure, going straight for Queally. The two hugged,
and in that hard embrace you could see all the tension that comes with great
loss. There must have been so many moments on the Heath when it was the three
of them, so many breakfasts, so many post-mortems, of triumph or
disappointment. There is a thing, when you lose someone, of wanting the person
who understands the most. In that winner’s circle, at Ascot, with the colours
of Prince Khalid Abdullah shining like a beacon just as they had in Frankel’s
last, mighty victory, I think that for Lady Cecil Tom Queally understood the
most.

At this stage, Lady Cecil’s face had the raw,
undefended look of someone who has suffered tearing loss. But she was in front
of the world. She had to step up to the microphone. Clare Balding, with every
inch of her sensitivity and professionalism, conducted what must have been one
of the hardest interviews of her career. She knew all these people; she had
grown up with them; there was no disinterested distance for her. But she was on
national television; she had to ask the questions.

Looking back on it now, I am amazed that Lady
Cecil did not just walk away. Connections who have nothing like her excuse have
turned from the microphone; I’ve watched famous owners ruthlessly snub
post-race interviewers. And yet, in one of the most graceful acts I have seen
on a racecourse, she generously offered herself, in all her loss, squaring her
shoulders and lifting her face up in its naked emotion.

She looked up to the sky, gathered a
faltering smile, and said: ‘First of all, that was for Henry.’

There was a terrible pause.

‘For the Prince, and for all the staff at
Warren Place.’

Then she rallied. ‘I don’t really have the
words to say what I am feeling.’

Bugger everything, I thought; there are no
words. And yet this tremendous woman kept on. ‘He was just adored, by so many
people. I mean, people who’ve never met him, just loved him. And...’ She shook
her head, running out of words. ‘What can I say?’

Another sympathetic question from Balding;
another brave answer.

‘We hardly dared dream that we would have a
winner. I just thought, God he would have been relishing this. Everyone knows
how he loves Ascot.’

And there it was, the present tense. The most
revealing, moving moment of all; the marker that the master of Warren Place is
not yet gone in the minds and hearts of those who loved him.

She tailed off, and Clare Balding moved in to
rescue her. ‘You need say nothing more, you’ve been so brave, so strong. Well
done.’

But Lady Cecil was not finished. Like her
lovely, fighting filly, she took another run at it. ‘Keeping busy is what’s
keeping us all going. If we had nothing to do, I think we’d all fall to bits.’

Clare Balding, the seasoned pro, faltered
herself, in the midst of that boiling cauldron of emotion. Suddenly hardly able
to get her own words out, she said, almost in a whisper: ‘It’s the best result
of all.’

And the sweetest thing was that the cameras
then cut to Riposte, being led away, her intelligent ears pricked, her kind eye
gleaming and bright, her head held high. The good ones, the competitive ones, seem
to know when they have won. Tom Queally said once of Frankel that as the colt
seasoned and grew in stature, he began to understand that the noise and
acclamation which should really alarm a flight animal was in fact a homage. ‘He
soaked it all up; he knew it was for him,’ Queally said after York.

Riposte is not in that legendary category.
She is a nice filly, with a lovely talent and a willing attitude; she may rise
to some heights, but perhaps she will not go down in history like her imperious
relation. But all the same, in that moment, she had a little look of eagles in
her fine eye.

There were many things for which Sir Henry
Cecil was famous. One of them was being good with fillies. Wining the Oaks
eight times was not a fluke. Bizarrely, there is sexism in the horse world just
as there is in the human. People talk of fillies and mares being difficult,
unpredictable, hormonal. Mare-ish is a horrid, lazy insult, casually hurled.
But I think what Henry Cecil knew is what anyone who has loved and worked with
a female equine carries in their heart. If you are gentle and kind and patient
with a filly, she will give you everything, every last inch of loyalty and
trust and fighting spirit. So it was intensely appropriate that in this
dramatic week, in this Royal Meeting which started with a minute of silence for
its native son, it was one of his girls who came good for the old fellow.

As the emotion subsided, there was the
rushing realisation that this was not yet the end of the drama of this
extraordinary day. The very next race was the Gold Cup, the showpiece of the
week. It is two and a half miles, a colossal distance. Most flat horses are
simply not bred to run this far. There was a huge field, although because of
the fast ground runners were dropping like flies. The promising High Jinx was
out; Dermot Weld decided he could not risk the delicate legs of Rite of
Passage. At the top of the market, driven there by a combination of sentiment
and hope, was the ravishing bay filly, Estimate.

Estimate belongs to the Queen. Last June, I
was there to watch her win the Queen’s Vase, to extravagant emotion, in the
jubilee year. I fell in love with her then and I have followed her ever since.
She is a lightly-built filly; she does not look like a mighty stayer. But she
has a dreamy temperament and the will to win, and she is improving all the
time.

On paper, she had something to find. The trip
was four whole furlongs into the unknown; on strict official ratings, she was
well down the field of fourteen. She would have to produce a rampant career
best.

As I had with Riposte, I resisted my stupid
soft heart, and tried to find the rivals who would bring her low. Simenon was
the danger, I decided, with proven form at course and distance, and the wizard
that is Willie Mullins in charge.

But again, as the start neared, I gave in to
the heart, and bashed all my money on the little mare. Yes, she was up against
the boys; yes, it was a fairy tale too far; yes, she had something to find on
the book. But blast it, I wanted her to win more than anything, and if anything
could find that little bit extra for the big occasion, she could.

She is such a kind and genuine horse. Channel
Four showed a clip of her in her stable, and she was as dopey and dreamy and
affectionate as a dear old donkey, nuzzling up to her lass, making silly faces,
soaking up the love of her faithful human. It made me fall more in love with
her than ever. Bugger the book I thought; this is my girl.

And I switch into the present tense, because
it feels in my head as if the drama is happening all over again.

As Estimate goes round the paddock, with her
owner watching intently, she shows all of her big race temperament. On a warm day, there
is not a hint of sweat on her bay flanks. Then, suddenly, without in any way
becoming flighty or over-wrought, she gives two little bucks. They are balanced
perfectly on the fulcrum of exuberance and determination. They sketch an
arching parabola of intent. My mother and I look at each other, hope rising in
our eyes.

‘She’s ready,’ we say to each other, in
trembling voices. ‘Oh yes. She is ready.’

The late cash comes pouring in, perhaps from
the seasoned paddock watchers, perhaps from the sentimental royalists. Estimate
shortens in to 7-2, veering violently from sixes this morning. I add my cash to
the party. I’ve loved this horse for a long time; I damned if I am going to let
my old loyalties lapse. I can see all the doubts for what they are. But my
money must be where my mouth is.

Estimate comes out onto the course, on her
own. She canters down to the start with her head high and her ears pricked,
collected and balanced, looking around her as if taking in every inch of the
fine spectacle. She has a little white snip on her dear nose, and, in my
fevered mind, it starts to blaze like a flashing sign.

And, they are off.

The sultry summer’s day turns misty, and
through a sudden murk, Estimate’s white flash shows brightly. She takes up a
good position, one off the rail, four lengths off the pace. Ryan Moore lets her
down and gets her beautifully settled, so her natural rhythm can assert itself.
Her long, narrow ears go back and forth in time with her hoofbeats.

Past the packed stands they go. The faint
sounds of whistles and applause can be heard, before they are off again into
the country, where the race will begin to unfold.

The massive white-faced German raider is
running strongly in front, tracked by the two staying stars, Colour Vision and
Saddler’s Rock. Estimate is tidily tucked in behind. Into Swinley Bottom, she
is perhaps the most well-balanced of the entire field, happy in her dancing
rhythm.

Four out, the field bunches up. ‘There is
Estimate,’ says Simon Holt, his voice rising, ‘with every chance.’

Jockeys are starting to crouch lower now, not
yet kicking on, but indicating an increased momentum. Ryan Moore is rocking
Estimate gently into a quicker pace. Colour Vision, who won this last year but
has been disastrously out of form ever since, is suddenly full of running. The
brilliant Johnny Murtagh is releasing Saddler’s Rock. Simenon is unleashing a
withering run down the outside. In the midst of this, in a small pocket of her
own, Estimate is quietly running her race.

And then Moore asks the question, after over
two miles of searching turf, and Estimate answers. The answer is: Yes.

She surges forwards, chasing the mighty grey
in the Godolphin colours. She gets past him, inch by inch, but the race is not
done. Two big fellas come charging at her, down the outside; the Irish Simenon,
the French Top Trip.

All three horses are now in full cry. They
are so close together you could not put a cigarette paper between them. For a
horrible moment, I think that the slip of a girl will be swallowed up by the
roaring boys.

At home, in our house, with the indigo
Scottish hills visible though the window and the bluebirds questing at the
window, everything erupts. I am on my feet, bawling at the top of my voice. My
old mum, who has seen Nijinsky and Mill Reef and the Brigadier, is shouting: ‘Come on, Ryan’. Stanley the Dog, who
clearly believes we have suffered some kind of catastrophic event, is howling
and jumping and barking his head off. Only the sensible Stepfather sits silent,
riveted to the action, a small oasis of calm in the storm.

I look away, unable to watch, convinced the
brave filly is beat. It’s too much to ask; it’s too much to hope. She’s never
been anywhere near this distance before; only the very best fillies are capable
of beating the colts. She’ll fade, fold up, be done on the line.

But I turn back, and there she is, with her
little head stuck out, her glorious stride lengthening not shortening, every
atom in her body speaking of her will to win. I gather one last stupid howl of
hope.

GO ON GO ON GO ON, I shout, ignoring the
family, ignoring the leaping dog, ignoring everything except the fierce battle
of those last, terrifying strides.

Simenon’s determined head comes up to
Estimate’s shoulder, the great momentum of his powerful quarters pushing him
forward. Will the bloody finishing post never come?

Somehow, somehow, the good filly keeps going.
It is as if she is saying to the others: no, boys, not today. Today is my day.

And there, at last, is the line, and she has
a precious neck in hand, and Ryan Moore is crouched up almost at her ears,
carrying her over the finish.

‘I CAN’T BELIEVE IT,’ I shout.

As if my entire family is deaf, I yell again:
‘I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.’

We hug, we jump in the air, we weep idiot
tears of joy.

It’s just a horse. It’s just an old lady in a
lilac dress. It’s just a race.

On any rational level, it is hard to know
which is more absurd: the racing of horses or the hereditary monarchy. But
humans are not rational animals. Even in the most empirical of us, the magical
thinking sometimes overwhelms. I can’t help it: I love the Queen. I love her
for her dignity and restraint and good old British stoicism. I love Estimate,
for her sweetness and strength and bloody-minded determination not to give up.
I swear she had a Fuck You Boys look in her eye as she flashed past the post.
And I love racing, where these beautiful herd animals may show all their
mighty, fighting qualities.

And so I shouted and cried and leapt in the
air, even though I am forty-six years old and I should know better.

The filly came back to the paddock, the Queen
walked down to greet her, the crowd went insane. People did not know what to do
with themselves. The little golden cup was presented, and the Queen, who really
has been around the block more than most, who has been coming to Ascot since
the fifties, who knows all about the dreams of horses not quite coming true,
stared at it as if she had never seen it before. She looked as delighted and
disbelieving as a child.

And that, my darlings, was Ladies’ Day at
Ascot, when four tremendous females, two equine and two human, wrote a story
that will stay stitched into the memory of everyone lucky enough to have
witnessed it.

PS. I can't show you pictures of Estimate and Riposte, for copyright reasons. Today's photograph is of my own little dancing thoroughbreds, not as talented on the racecourse as those mighty girls, but as much of a champion in my own heart.

5 comments:

As always, beautifully written. Thrilling, in fact. Here, in my musty "computer room," I was nearly compelled to jump and shout with you! You have a remarkable ability to convey emotion and immediacy of the moment! Thank you for the joy this morning.

Tania, lovely to hear from you again, and thank you for that beautiful piece. I'm horsey but non-racing, and it brought tears into my musty computer room too. Everything you write is glorious and so evocative. Hope your lovely mares are alright, and I look forward to hearing more from you. Don't wait for the Donald to go mad again before you bring more joy into our lives. Gill in the New Forest

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